


Seven Days

by aposse



Series: Seven [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:02:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aposse/pseuds/aposse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven days. That’s all it takes for what they want so badly to deny to become the ever frightening and very real truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Days

**Author's Note:**

> I strongly note that this story is written very differently from the first two. There’s always been the factor of time - it being over half a year - and another simple reason: the intention. This is written in a way to hopefully create the possiblity of a relationship between Emma and Regina. Thank you to the lovely Sophie (aurorstorm) for always being there and just being her great self. I do hope you enjoy this series, and any feedback would be appreciated!

 

 

 

 

**VII**

 

Seven days.

 

That’s all it takes for what they want so badly to deny to become the ever frightening and very real truth. They stand together, but somehow alone in the middle of Henry’s empty classroom, hair mussed from the wind and eyes marked red with panic. 

 

“He’s my son.” Regina argues, and though she knows it’s weak, it’s all she can really say. Her lips in this very moment dare to betray her; dare to voice the emotion swelling in her chest. The eyes that are cast down to the floor shoot up to meet a dark glare. Emma knows there’s more to it, and Regina regrets ever letting the woman in to this degree. 

 

“ _Seriously_ , Regina?” Emma scoffs, shoving her hands into her pockets. “After this week, you still argue with that?”

 

“I adopted him.”

 

“I gave birth to him.”

 

“I raised him.”

 

“He was _in me_.”

 

“Using your logic, Miss Swan, I was in you the other night, so does that suddenly give you the right to claim me?” 

 

How this conversation budded from picking up an ill-stricken Henry, Regina's forgotten. And she’s done. Whatever words she’s managed to keep lodged in her throat are only seconds away from touching the air between them, and _that_ — to expose herself any further to Emma Swan — can’t happen. She’s never seen this side of herself before, and the fact that the other woman has the ability to bring it out only frightens Regina. She turns on her heel, intent on storming out of the classroom with the little strength she has left. 

 

“Yes.”

 

She forces her legs to continue in their stride but it’s no use. Emma’s said it and Regina can’t ignore it. Her abrupt stop says it all - it asks for clarification, for an explanation.

 

“I said _yes_ , okay? It doesn’t give me the right to claim you, but it sure as hell gives me the right to- to actually be here for you. To have you.” 

 

Regina urges her legs to break from their impotent state but Emma’s words keep her in place. The sound of children playing outside trickles in through the window, their screams nowhere near as loud as the chaos in her mind. But then Emma says something and the havoc stops completely, the words flooring her. 

 

“I want you, Regina. I want all of you.”

 

 

 

 

 

**I**

 

A poster, of all things, is what brought her here.

 

Regina knew the moment she set foot into the bar it would be trouble. Yet something inside her — the cider, perhaps — willed her knees to bend and lift her feet into a stride. And though what may seem like a simple act from crossing one end of the room to the other, to Regina, it was a herculean effort. 

 

She doesn’t know why it’s so difficult to move. Why there’s a weakness in her knees every time the ends of her heels click against the tiles. But when the crowd of Storybrooke parts like a sea at her presence, she sees Emma Swan, and it’s enough to let her know; it’s enough to confirm these god awful desires that won’t subside. 

 

Yes, Regina often thinks about throwing that red jacket into a pit of raging fire. Hell, even the woman wearing it if her torturous drive was at a low. 

 

And yes, Regina often thinks about what it would be like if Emma Swan were gone. But whenever she decides to not throw the woman into the fire that flames in her mind, she finds herself thinking of something much less wretched and much more... satisfying.

 

Regina finds herself wondering what the skin under the jacket would feel like, if the cheap fabric had at all caused the fair skin to sweat. She finds herself wondering what it would taste like, too. If the drips of sweat would mix pleasurably with the sweetness in her tongue, or if it’d leave a sour taste like the words that escape her lips often do.

 

She’s had the chance to do it all. 

 

Seven hours, and yet during that window of time, Regina only remembers feeling hunger; feeling the need to have her tongue everywhere at once; feeling rather than tasting. She remembers the tips of her fingers numbing at their contact; the amount of effort it took to seize the tremble. She remembers it all, and despite the memory of her fingers enveloped in Emma’s heat, the itch to feel her quiver beneath her touch still lingers. 

 

It’s how Regina finds herself in the bar, a wrinkled poster in her hand with denial clenched in the other as she stalks towards the object of her desire. The woman looks different, Regina notices, slowing her steps in what seems to be a dramatic flare when it’s really out of surprise. Because Emma, it seems, is drunk. Not tipsy. Not buzzed. _Drunk_. Regina would expect herself to snicker at the advantage she has, yet the closer she gets to the woman the more it becomes clear what this feeling really is. 

 

Concern. 

 

And this feeling — this _worry_ that fills her limbs and drags the sheriff out the bar — is how Regina finds herself in her car with a very drunk Emma Swan.

 

“I _wanted_ to be there.” Emma argues, eyelids drooping as her head lolls against the cushion of the seat. She then grabs at what Regina’s thrown on the dashboard. “ _See_ ,” Emma points, her finger wandering on every inch of the wrinkled poster, “Shots for Sheriff.” 

 

“Quite the turn out.” Regina comments, driving away from the bar. A final glance at the rearview mirror has her wondering why.

 

“It was for Graham.” It’s barely audible, but the sound that comes after that — the way the poster crumples and crushes in Emma's hand — nearly sets Regina off. It takes a great deal for her to control what it’s triggered; she can almost feel the remnants of Graham’s heart, her grip on the wheel slipping as his ashes grind beneath it.

 

“I take it today was that day.” She finally replies. Her grip then tightens when she hears a sob next to her escape. 

 

Comfort is foreign to Regina. For a great deal of her life she was deprived of it, given a false understanding of its intention. And her past (or lack thereof) with comfort is why she becomes surprised at what her body does next. Regina watches as her left hand turns the wheel near a curb, feeling the confusion in her brows knit as her other hand parks the car. And then, when her hand hovers over Emma’s weeping form, she feels something between the closing space. A force makes it stick and—

 

Emma stops.  

 

She stops crying; stops breathing. She rises from her hunched position, hands wiping furiously at what she can’t control. The tears trickle down and as if infectious, the lips they touch say something that leaves Regina in awe. “Help me.”

 

She blinks once, twice, holding her breath as her mind comes to a halt. “I beg your—”

 

“Lo- look,” Emma says, resting her elbows on her knees, hunching over in defeat yet again. “Even if I didn’t know it in there,” she points behind them to the bar, “I was, I was trying to forget about Graham. It’s a shitty excuse to drink but, but...  you took that away from me and I _wanted to forget_ , Regina!” 

 

Emma looks over to her, and though her eyes still sting with grief there’s a demand in them she can’t deny.  “I don’t know what you’re asking.” Regina finally admits. 

 

Emma’s gaze falters, her brows knitting in frustration as her hands tremble traitorously.

 

“Is,” Regina pauses, fighting the urge to wring her own hands together, “is it there?” She leads the question with her eyes. She remembers the inability to wash away the guilt— the _memory_ off your hands, still feeling that burn of what you once touched.

 

Emma nods. She begins to lift them to her face. “They were the last thing that touched Graham. At the station,” Emma pauses, trying to steady her breath, “at the mor—”

 

Regina grabs her hands, surprised by the strength she envelops them in. Of course she feels guilt at what Graham’s death has reduced Emma to. She remembers forcing herself to get up and leave the mausoleum, only doing so a half hour later. Death, whomever its next victim is, affects everybody. And though many have died under Regina's name, it's still very new to her. In this world especially. 

 

"You lose the feeling of it," Regina's fingers wrap tighter around Emma's, "once you start doing something else with them." Emma looks at her then, the tips of her fingers now flushed as her cheeks. "Is it going away?" She asks.

 

Their eyes are still locked, and if she’d blinked Regina's sure she would’ve missed that faint nod.

 

"Well, then." She lets go slowly. But then, when she begins to feel the growing reluctance in her action, Regina lets go altogether. Before Emma can react she has the car on drive.

 

The rest of the ride is quiet, mainly with Emma squeezing her fingers in wonderment at what the numbness can do. Regina's learned plenty of years ago the wonders of ignorance; _that_ creates a numbness of its own. They arrive several minutes later near the apartment. She parks a block away without a thought, like her body knows to stay away from Snow. 

 

"Why did you come get me?"

 

It's the first words spoken in what seems like an age. Regina stops thinking all together, unsure of what to say because in truth she hasn't the slightest clue. What compels her to Emma Swan has always been too complex for words; so Regina stays silent. 

 

Her focus is on the fog rolling towards them, and with each moment that passes it becomes harder to ignore the plea of her fingers. In the quiet that surrounds them she can _just_ hear Emma's fingers tapping on those jean-clad thighs. Regina glances down at them; lets her gaze linger longer than it should and as if entranced by the rhythm, her grip loosens on the wheel and snakes onto Emma's lap. Regina's fingers begin to cover cold ones, the ends running over Emma's knuckles, their tips parting the trembling hands. 

 

"What are you doing?" Emma asks as she leans her head against the seat. It's defeat, a small sigh of accepting what the day has reduced her to. 

 

Regina's eyes flick over to the fog, and maybe it's just that; the cloud surrounding them, giving her that tinge of courage to say what comes next. "Making you forget." Or maybe it's the mixture of guilt and arousal and not-quite-pity she has for Emma Swan. 

 

Regina brings the limp hand up to her mouth, presses her lips gently against it and flicks life back into the limb with her tongue. She can feel Emma's pulse begin to race and loses track of it completely when her lips envelop a finger. She does it slowly, what energy is usually spent creating hostility now used to bring it into her mouth. But the finger still shakes. It still quakes with an uncertainty and grief Regina's beginning to taste. She uses her teeth to stop the finger at its base, keeping it there until the tremble in them subsides. 

 

Then it begins to move on its own. Regina glances to her side and catches Emma's lips parted, eyes closing from pleasure and drunkenness. She exhales a breath that reaches relief into her fingers and just like that, begins to caress Regina's face. Slowly, but lively.  

 

Her lips open to exhale a warm breath against Emma's finger. She feels it retracting, itching to trail down her body. So she lets her teeth scrape against it, closing in on the tip and lets her lips offer a wet goodbye as Emma's hand marks a path down to her center. But there are detours, and Regina finds her thoughts muddled by the touch. Emma's hand cups her breasts, trickles down her abdomen and spreads her legs as far as they can part. 

 

And when they land on the treasure between her legs, a jolt of pleasure runs throughout her body and she covers Emma's hand with hers. Whatever reason she may use to justify this is of no importance to her anymore. What's become important to Regina is trying to get these damn trousers unzipped. 

 

 

 

 

 

**IV**

 

“Is this really necessary?” Emma steps into the dimmed room and follows quickly behind Regina, lips still flaming with the heat of their argument. Regina pivots on her heel, the turn so sharp and sudden it leaves her only a breath away from Emma. 

 

“I don’t appreciate having you blame me for your sprained wrist.” 

 

“It was your fault!” Emma stumbles back a bit, the height of her heels clearly ruining her seriousness. “You,” she tries to steady her words and, like her stance, fails at it. Miserably. Her voice drops to a whisper at the fear of other guests hearing. “You rode my hand _way_ too hard that night.” 

 

Emma can feel the challenge rise with Regina’s brow, lifting in a manner that shouldn’t arouse her (but does). 

 

“Oh, so _now_ we’re talking about this?”

 

“What do you mean? You were the one who-”

 

“ _I_ ,” Regina inches closer, “did not, under any circumstance, deny the discussion of that night. If I remember clearly, Miss Swan, it was you who spent the last three days trying to avoid me.”

Emma wants to argue back. She wants to say something clever and wipe that unbelievably attractive snarl off Regina’s face. And she does. Sort of.

 

Her lips latch onto Regina’s; it’s messy and rough and quick but it gets the point across. They part as quickly as they fuse, noses red and lips fading. Emma catches Regina’s eyes flutter for a moment. The shock is as evident as the budding arousal. “ _That_ —” Emma begins, taking a breath as she lets the moment sink in. “Now do you see why I’ve been avoiding you?”

 

Regina licks her lips then, eyes flicking down with hunger at Emma’s. “Is that so?” She grins, and though the colour splashed outside the lines of her lips should make her look ridiculous, Emma doesn’t ever remember wanting to taste something as much. So she leans forward, expecting to be caught in another kiss, but finds herself denied. A shoulder stops her and she feels the strain in her neck grow as it cranes for those swollen lips. “I asked you a question, Miss Swan.”

 

“Seriously?” 

 

Regina’s other hand is at her hip again, flicking the badge with a nail as the ones on her shoulder dig deeper into the fabric of her blouse. “Do I have to take this away from you again for you to know your place?” 

 

Emma shrugs off the woman's touch, taking the liberty of unclipping the badge from her trousers (it really has no place there, but being at a semi-formal town gathering and showing off this kind of authority? Emma can't deny the pleasure it brings her). “I’d still be an asshole, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

 

 

 

 

 

**I**

 

"You're beautiful." Emma suddenly says. 

 

If Regina weren't so far gone by the heat between her legs it would have turned her off completely. Because really, Emma has no right in saying that; she has no right in making Regina feel her worth is more than what it truly is to this woman. "And you're drunk." She replies, breath as steady as the rhythm her hand guides Emma's fingers with.

 

"Yes, I'm drunk. And you're beautiful." She states them like facts. Like, _yes, I'm drunk. And the sky is blue._ "And tomorrow morning, I'll be sober but you'll still be beautiful."

 

It sets something off in Regina. Her orgasm, yes, but something else. Something that isn't lust or pleasure or arousal. Something that (to her surprise) is inherently pure. She can feel it, too; feel the way it touches the dark depths in her, filling life into the very edges of her limbs as it grazes the wetness on her lips when she moans Emma's name. 

 

_Emma._

 

It makes Regina lose grip of the touch she now writhes against, hands clawing at what they can as her hips rock into the air. _Oh_. Emma's hitting that spot again, moving her fingers in the right rhythm to make her come down slowly. It’s faint, but Regina hears something mumbled beside her. Another drunken compliment, she assumes. Yet it isn't until a kiss is planted onto the back of her hand does she open her eyes, catching sight of red blurring into the fog they're enveloped in. 

 

 

 

 

 

**IV**

 

"You wanted me to make you forget." Regina reminds, eyes following the badge as it's pocketed into Emma's blazer.

 

"Yeah, and you did. But you made me remember something else." Emma pauses for a moment, so still that even her breath stops. "What's going on between us?"

 

"Shouldn't you be asking yourself that?"

 

"What?"

 

" _You_ began this. In my closet." Regina crosses her arms underneath the swell of her breasts. "You began it—"

 

"And now I should end it?" Emma finishes incredulously. "You have to be fucking _kidding_ me, Regina. Do you hear yourself right now?"

 

"Do _you_ hear _yourself?_ " Regina suddenly hisses. "Because I'm quite certain the rest of the town can."

 

Emma brushes past the woman to get to the door, closing it off from the rest of Storybrooke. “Do you want this or not?” She locks it with slight frustration before turning around.

 

“Do I want what?” Regina asks, stalking forward, fingers mindlessly dancing over the seams of her blouse. 

 

"This." Emma's eyes gesture to the closing space between them. "Because I don't have time for this kind of—"

 

Two strong hands push her against the door, knocking the breath out of her lungs. Whatever air Emma has left is exhaled when Regina places her knee between her legs. " _This_ ," she brings her knee higher, forcing Emma to control her hips from rolling at the touch, "is all your doing, Em-ma." Regina leans closer, speaking the words into Emma's lips while her breath dangles between the little space left. "And all," Regina's forearm rests on her chest, freeing her other hand, "you have to do," it ghosts over Emma's blouse, "is say stop." Without a warning it's ripped open and—

 

 _Seriously?_ Emma thinks. This blouse is the most expensive thing in her wardrobe and—

 

 _Oh._ Regina's lips are pressed onto hers. The warm tongue traces the edges of Emma's teeth until she parts them, slowly, feeling the buds squeeze through the small space before she loses patience. Emma lets her hunger take control, shamelessly rolling her hips over the bare knee.

 

It could seem pathetic to another; ready to come in only a matter of seconds. But then Emma reminds herself: it's _Regina_. She's literally lasted hours under this touch. Damn anyone to hell who ridicules her if she comes in the next second. 

 

"Ah, ah." Regina pulls away from their kiss to breathe the taunt onto her lips. She drops her knee and, before Emma's body can even register the retraction, puts a hand in its place instead. "Not so fast." Regina pulls the blouse out of the way, unzipping Emma's trousers and delving beneath the thin fabric. 

 

Emma has to bite on her tongue to keep from moaning because this is so unfair. She's never made Regina wait. She's never— 

 

" _Oh_." It's breathed out more than said, the little coherence in Emma leaving the moment Regina's fingers dip inside her.  “Regina..” Emma warns, the tone cold and uninviting, yet the breath it’s said with is warm and welcoming against the woman's ear. It only makes Regina thrust her fingers in deeper, harder.

 

She feels her stifle a laugh, blowing away a strand of dark hair instead. “You know, all you have to say is stop, and I will. But, if you just so happen to want this," a palm presses against Emma's center, _hard_ , "then come. If you don’t..” Her eyes zero in on Regina’s and that’s when she sees it; something comes over her that she can’t control, a playfulness in her words that Emma knows even surprises Regina. Their lips brush at her words, “then kiss me.”

 

“And if I want to do both?” Emma’s breath begins to quiver at the erupting pleasure. “Love-hate sort of thing?” She’s panting now.

 

“Then we’re on the same page.” Regina then twists her fingers inside her warmth, dipping down to silence Emma’s moan with a kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

**VII**

 

"You really don't know what I'm capable of, do you?" Regina asks, finally turning around. When nothing but a breeze from the open window replies, tickling at her bare legs, she scoffs. "You really don't." And she never should because _damn it_ , Regina has actually come to care for Emma.

 

"Listen, I'm not relationship material." Emma finally says.

 

"And you think _I_ am?" Regina asks. "Whatever, whomever I care for..." her eyes flick over to Henry's empty desk, "just ends up running away from me. And so will you.” She sighs. “Do you really think this will work? That we can just... do this?"

 

"No, I mean—" Emma shakes her head and takes a step forward. "Regina, if this is a homophobic thing you have going on—"

 

"Homo _what?_ "

 

Green eyes narrow for a moment before they close with a tired sigh. "Look, if this is your first time with a woman," Emma's voice lowers, "which I highly doubt because you're incredible, there isn't anything wrong with it. Storybrooke is a small town and—"

 

"That isn't it." Regina shakes her head. Though it genuinely is her first time being with a woman (the thought of it hadn't occurred to her until, well, Emma), it isn't the problem. 

 

"Then what is it, Regina? Because if you can't tell I really want this. And maybe this was the kid's plan all along — to get us together or..." 

 

The words become distant inside Regina's mind because oh, is Emma ever _wrong_. How would this go, anyway? Where would it lead and what, Regina genuinely asks herself, is the _point_ of it all? To end up loving someone only to have them ripped away from her? 

 

"...and I'm trying to show you, Regina." The cadence in Emma's voice catches her attention. When her focus comes back to the blonde — the wetness flowing down her cheeks as her lips tremble in a plea — something inside Regina breaks. 

 

This isn't about losing Henry or replacing Daniel. This is about Regina literally breaking; breaking from old habits and taking a leap with the very little she has left in this life. 

 

"Just look at who we are." She says, taking a step towards Emma. "Do you honestly think we can make this work?"

 

" _God!_ " Emma finally snaps. "What are you so _fucking_ _scared of,_ Regina?! I've been here for over a year proving myself. I brought Henry back to you from fucking _Boston!_ "

 

" _You,_ " Regina lifts her finger up at Emma, "had no right to stay. He is—" she stops herself mid-sentence, knowing how invalid this argument is. Emma's eyes flare with challenge at her last words, lips ready to scream a defense when Regina suddenly switches thought. "What would I be, Emma, if you just decide to leave one day?"

 

It catches Emma off guard, no doubt. "What makes you think I would?"

 

"Because it's _who_ _you are!_ " Regina finally says, the reality of the situation paining her more than anything. "You run. And _this_ ," she gestures around them, the chaos their words have created more evident than her pain, "is who _I_ am. This is what I do because I know what'll happen." Regina swallows down the regret in what she says next. "So let's just save ourselves from the heartbreak and... not."

 

It's quiet, for a time so long that it stretches to the point of discomfort. 

 

"Henry." Emma finally says. Regina rips her gaze away from the floor at the mention of his name. "You raised him, I gave birth to him. We," Emma shuffles timidly on her feet, "we have to have done something right because there's Henry." 

 

Regina doesn't hold back a smile at that because Emma’s right. Henry is the only thing she's done that’s pure in this life.

 

"And if we can do right by Henry, we can do more rights, can't we?" Emma steps forward, eyes widening with hope. 

 

"Your naivety amuses me." Regina replies. "But I suppose you're right. Henry's an incredible child." She loses herself in her thoughts for a moment, flashes of her struggles the first night he was put in her arms. She also remembers the amount of times she’s wished for someone to raise him with her. But no one ever came. And perhaps that was it; waiting so long for someone who’d never come.

 

"Regina?" But here was Emma Swan, pulling her from her notions and making her _see_ that someone did arrive. And someone did care, genuinely. "I promise you," she says, holding onto the silver band that rests on her chest, and Regina notices a flicker of _something_ glazing her eyes when she touches it. "That I'll try. I really will." She reaches her hand out in a gesture Regina finds to be trite but also endearing. 

 

She looks at the hand that opens up before her, the lines of it telling her a story she hadn't bothered to read. Regina wonders what these hands have endured — if they touched anything as divine as magic or as treacherous like the ashes of a heart. Then it becomes hard focus; the lines Regina's eyes trace begin to blur and it's only when she looks at Emma altogether that she realizes why. Her silence, it seems, has made Emma nervous. Then, like that night seven days ago in her car, Regina’s hand takes it to hold without a second thought, her body already giving the clear answer.

 

"I'll try, too."


End file.
